The Price that is Paid
by BeyondTheHorizonIsHope
Summary: There is a line between duty and passion, between the honorable and the forbidden. We crossed that line. And so for the blood we have spilled, the oaths we have taken, the vows we have broken…for all that we have done, this is the price that is paid.


Hello everyone! Yes, another story, would you look at that. I have been working on this one for ages, always wanting to post it but not really knowing what to do with it. Some of you may have seen it on my profile. Well, finally finished the first chapter and I'm really looking forward to getting some feedback for this. I have made so much stuff from scratch, my own house with its history, banner, words and family tree (I kid you not, they're on a Word document). I suppose it's a bit of a risk, but that's what makes it so exciting!

So, this story takes place before the events in Game of Thrones, however I have changed one thing in the timeline. Although the Starks have their direwolf pups, Robert is NOT heading to Winterfell yet. They just got them earlier. I can't imagine them without their direwolves. It's just odd.

I believe that is everything. I hope you guys enjoy!

**Game of Thrones belongs to George R.R. Martin. **

* * *

**Chapter One**

**The End of a Line**

Serra had never seen so much blood before.

She had been warned by Maester Harren, his solemn green eyes pleading with her to not look, but she had not listened. Her heart had been pulsing with a morbid curiosity ever since the wagon had passed through the Western Gate. The streets had never looked so empty as it moved along. An occasional head would poke out from a doorway and once the escorts had found themselves assaulted by white petals as they rained down from an upper balcony, but otherwise the city was still, save for the black linens that swayed in the breeze, a sign the people were in mourning.

Ser Nestor had always been a somber man but he seemed even more so that day as he climbed the stone steps to the keep, helm in hand and brow speckled with sweat. It had been so warm. She nearly forgot.

Lord Martyn Lanford had waited for him at the top. She had watched him in his great fur-lined coat, standing as tall as his banners, a true man of the North, or at least he tried. The image was starting to falter. Her father was a gaunt man, appearing far older than his five and forty years, and to watch him attempt to be anything else was painful. She thanked the gods Mae was not there to see it.

The lord and master-at-arms clasped elbows. A few mumbled words were exchanged and that seemed to be the end. Her father departed immediately, faster than she thought possible. She had lingered long enough to have the sword, Ironsong, presented to her in two pieces.

"My lady."

Serra's head snapped up. Maester Harren was staring at her. She did not know why until her gaze dropped down again.

Her hand still held the rough, wool blanket, exposing what had been hidden beneath. It was her brother, or so they said. There was nothing left for her to recognize him by. Her stomach twisted at the sight and smell, but she refused to look away. All doubt had to be cast out now.

She lowered the blanket.

"Have the masons begin preparation for the funeral." Her voice was dead. She supposed it was only right.

"They already have," Maester Harren replied. For once he sounded his age. "Gareth is seeing to it personally."

Serra nodded. If there was one soul who could capture his likeness, it would be the master mason. He had returned only the other day from King's Landing. They were fortunate to have his presence.

"Fortunate," she whispered. That was a word her family was not familiar with. Fortunate families did not have a father who ignored his own for the comforts of solitude. They did not have a black mark upon their name because of the actions of one held so close or their heir lying dead upon some slab of rock with little proof left of his humanity, with so little left of his face…oh gods, his beautiful face. What had they done to him?

Feeling the walls of her strength collapsing, Serra excused herself from the room. She closed her eyes against the forming tears, not caring how it stung. It was strange how she wanted to hide her feelings. Maester Harren had been like a father to her, perhaps even better than her own blood. He had seen her anger and fear, sadness and doubt. As any parent, he had always been there but now she wanted nothing more than to hide, to be alone in her grief. And so she ran, turning blindly down every hallway, looking for a way out, and therein laid the problem of building a castle into the side of a hill: there never was a way out.

Every corridor contained a maidservant who curtsied or a guard stuttering a quick 'my lady,' only making Serra feel more ashamed of her current state. She hiked up her skirts and moved faster, wishing away all the faces and voices. Eventually she stumbled upon the blessed stairs she had been looking for, skipping every other step until bursting into the sunlight, breathless but free.

The godswood was a sanctuary to all those who sought it and Serra was in desperate need of the peace it brought. She collapsed in front of the nearest tree, wrapping her arms around its trunk, where she proceeded to cry herself into oblivion.

_The Others take you, Rickard,_ she thought. _Look how you've left me._

If she closed her eyes, she could still see him. He had just finished drilling with Ser Harwick, leaving his chestnut hair a mess of tangles. His brow was sporting a bloody cut and his chin a bruise, but his silver eyes had never looked so alive. They were filled with such laughter and joy, a complete opposite to the emotional void of their father. His smile was bright and contagious. Even Ser Nestor was known to smirk around him.

"Another battle well won!" he would proclaim, voice loud and booming. Mae would run up to him, shouting in delight, and he would toss her into the air like she was a doll, even at the age of ten. He was tall and strong like their uncle, a formidable man in anyone's eyes.

"Aye, but the war is lost," the Captain of the Guard would comment, downing a quick drink as he was prone to do. "Your lady wife will not take that bloody sight lightly."

The thought of blood brought Serra back to that room. That was all there had been. It was caked on the table where they had placed him and on the blanket, so much that she had to tug at it in order to get a good look at him.

Her stomach heaved. She desperately clung to the tree until the feeling subsided.

Rickard would put on a look of mock horror and beg Mae to defend him from his foe. Their little sister would laugh at his wife being called the enemy, but Serra would only give half a smile. His marriage was civil at best but for the sake of their father he tried. He did many things for that cause.

"Serra, you are a woman. Tell me how to vanquish your kind," he said to her jokingly, throwing Mae on his shoulders where she would pull at his hair like a bridle.

She could not remember what she said then. It must have been something witty because he had laughed again, and said something about a dumb brute like him being unable to battle swords of the tongue.

Serra sniffed and stood, drifting away from the tree to wander deeper into the godswood.

That had been the last time she saw him. He had ridden out that night with two others for no discernible reason, other than that he could. She had always hated that part of his nature. Her brother was of the reckless sort, a warrior born in the time of peace. Now look where it had gotten him.

Kneeling before the weirwood, Serra stared into its face for a long time. She wanted to yell, to curse and spit at it, at the gods for allowing such a terrible thing to befall them. They had taken so much from her family already. But instead she began to pray, for what she could not be certain. Rickard had never liked the gods. He said a kneeling man looked foolish enough but before a tree, he might think them drunk. That had upset their mother but she had tried not to bring it up. She had been a quiet woman, an unusual trait for an Umber.

She sat in silence for some time. Even the birds held their voices at bay. It allowed her to hear the footsteps. Serra did not open her eyes for fear that the tears had not ceased yet, but she knew who it was that approached. As she had said, Maester Harren was like a father, and no parent left their child in misery for long.

"Is there anything that can be done?" he asked. She did not answer for a while. He did not move.

"Yes." Her eyes opened then. "I'll need three letters prepared. One for Winterfell, one for Last Hearth-"

Maester Harren cleared his throat. "My lady, the last time your uncle visited Lonely Keep, his men nearly set fire to the great hall."

Despite herself, Serra had to smile. It was a good memory, filled with music and dancing and wine, and yes, a small fire in the back corner by a tapestry. There had been such a commotion, one would have thought a battle was taking place within the keep.

"What I would give the gods for that," Serra whispered, glancing up at the blood red leaves. They rattled in the wind and seemed to speak to her, but it was a language her people had forgotten an age ago. "The last shall be addressed to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

She heard him shift. "Not to your brother?"

"He is not my brother!" Serra snapped, whipping to face Maester Harren with anger she had not thought herself to possess. He did not take a step back nor did he look abashed by her response. There was only understanding in those green eyes. How could they hold such comfort when the gray of her father's yielded nothing but a coolness fit for the North?

Serra took a deep breath, composing herself. "No, it goes to the Lord Commander. He may tell Joren of the news in whatever way he sees fit, but he must know first. Any delusions Joren may have of taking what is rightfully his ends at the Wall."

She closed her eyes again. Joren had always been a smart lad, though he had teetered on the edge of something else, something wild and chaotic. The Wall may have been enough to push him over. There had been stories…

No, she could not think of that now. That was all in the past, and if any fortune remained to her family, it would stay there, a dark story for a dark time, nothing more.

"Is there anything else?"

She looked to the weirwood one more time. "Where is my sister?"

* * *

When she was younger, Serra thought she could lose herself in the twisting corridors of her home. They seemed to go on for an eternity, branching into the hill like the roots of a tree. It did not help that Lonely Keep had few accesses to the outside and, if not lit by candlelight, was in perpetual darkness. This had never felt unusual to her; it was only when she first visited the vast halls of Winterfell that Serra realized her home was the oddity. Rickard had joked that their home had ways of making certain guests did not overstay their welcome.

Now that she was older, though only ten and five, a woman flowered but still caught in the grasp of childhood, the keep was no longer such a daunting place. While the number of passageways had stayed the same, she had long ago memorized the route. Even with her eyes closed, she could pick her way through the halls with ease. It often felt that way when she awoke to her young sister's cries late in the night. Terrors had always plagued Mae's dreams, and the poor thing would take comfort from no one save her sister. Lady Hanna had died in childbed, so Serra became the only mother Mae knew, even when she was only seven and her young sister two.

Serra had readily given up her childhood for the sake of Mae having a better life. Even though their father often ignored her, no doubt blaming the girl for his wife's death, her sister was a happy thing, filled with life and joy. Although, to look upon her now, one could scarcely imagine it.

Normally, her little sister's room was brightly lit, nearly made dark again from the sheer amount of smoke, not that any of it bothered her. Mae would be humming, playing with her dolls or practicing her handwriting, her imagination coming up with all sorts of tales that would have made the septas chuckle. Now the room was dark, save for a single burning candle near the end of its wick. That was where Serra found her, lying on the bed as she stared deep into the flame.

"Septa Lynese says you're the Lady of Lonely Keep now," her sister whispered, barely audible.

Serra shook her head, sitting down on the mattress beside Mae. She began to stroke her hair, thick, black locks that fell just to her shoulders. Her eyes were just as dark. While Rickard and Serra's looks had favored their father's, with the light hair and silver eyes of House Lanford, Mae had the look of their mother, and to an extent Joren. It did not put the girl in good company.

"And did you remind the septa that our father is still Lord?"

Mae nodded, her eyes never leaving the flame. "She told me not to be silly. She says everyone knows you and Rickard are in charge, that father never does anything except sit in his room."

_The Others take you too, Septa. Your words are treason and you've been spilling them about long enough._

Her sister sat up, dark pitch eyes now looking deep into her own. Serra could tell she had been crying. She had not been the one to tell Mae of their brother's death; she had been too wrapped up in her own grief and the affairs of his funeral. Now she regretted it with every fiber of her being. She hoped it had been Mina who spoke to her. The girl was kind and Mae enjoyed her company.

"And now…Rickard is gone. Mother is gone. Joren too. Are you going to leave, Serra?"

She felt it swell up in her chest like some wild beast, an anger and a deep urge to protect the girl before her. Gently, she placed her hands on either side of her sister's face and brought their foreheads together. "I swear to you, Maelyn, before every god and every lord and every king, you will never be alone. I will make sure of it."

Mae nodded against her forehead, wrapping her small arms around her. "Why do these things happen to us?"

Serra sighed. How many times had she asked herself the very same question? Certainly other households had suffered worse, such as the Starks or the Targaryens, but the Lanfords had suffered all their losses to times that were peaceful. She could not imagine what horrible things would happen to them at the hands of war.

"I do not know, Mae," Serra answered, hugging her back. "But we must not let it keep us down. It is like our liege lords say: Winter is coming."

"And we must watch the horizon?"

Serra smiled faintly at her sister's use of their words. "Yes. Watch the horizon."

* * *

Eddard Stark never grew tired of laughter. For much time there had been so little in his life, he thought he might forget the sound altogether. Hearing his children filled to the brim with it gave him a rare form of comfort that lightened even the heaviest of the burdens he carried.

They had all gathered in the courtyard and set to naming the direwolf pups that had been found on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. While handling his own, Robb was trying his best to make sure young Rickon did not do any permanent damage to his pup. The poor creature already had its tail pulled far too many times. Arya was letting hers play with a stick and Sansa had already begun tying a bow around the neck of hers. Bran was simply content to let his pup nip at his fingers. It was good to see the boy smiling after what he had to witness earlier that morning.

Jon sat off a ways, letting the runt of the litter paw at his boot. For once he did not seem to mind being set apart. It was Theon that Ned was actually concerned about. His ward had taken to solemnly firing an excessive amount of arrows at a nearby target. The boy would not admit it, but he was jealous. It was just another event to remind him that he was no Stark, or even a Northerner.

Catelyn shifted to his right. Ned tried very hard not to smile when he turned to her. She had been against the idea from the very beginning but seeing her children interact with the pups now was no doubt starting to change her attitude toward it.

"Don't look at me like that."

Now he did smile. "And how am I looking at you?"

"Like you've won," she replied. "I'll have you know I've not given my consent."

"Yet."

Ned watched his wife struggle with the smile. He broke into laughter when she finally gave in, a condition not helped when she slapped him on the arm.

"What am I to do with you, Ned Stark? First you have your children walk all over you and now you'll have them do the same to me."

He said nothing in response, but offered his arm to her. At first she refused but soon enough his wife was leaning against his shoulder, comfortably wrapped around him. They continued to watch the children in peaceful silence. There were many things Ned would have given to remain this way. Knights could have their glory and kings their crowns. He only wished for this moment to last forever. That did not seem so bad a thing. However, the old gods had other plans.

When a raven crashed upon the railing, Catelyn shrieked. Instinctively, Ned pushed her behind him, hand reaching for his sword until he saw the creature. Clearly wounded, it squawked before falling to the ground below them. Jon was the first to investigate, shooing his direwolf away as it sniffed at the corpse. The others watched, wide-eyed. Even Theon has ceased his activity, watching with a rare solemn look.

"This was a hawk's doing," Jon murmured as he picked off the bit of paper around its leg. Ned watched recognition flit over the boy's face.

"Bring it here, Jon," he said, sensing that the good times were spent now. The omen about dark wings and the words brought with them was bad enough, but to have the messenger fall dead before them?

Jon ran quickly up the steps, the pup following as best it could. Robb and Theon joined him as well, eyes filled with curiosity and a distant sense of duty.

"It's from Lonely Keep." Jon handed over the note, eyes glancing briefly at Catelyn before falling to the floor.

Lonely Keep held the seat of the Lanfords, one of the more powerful families in the North and close allies to the Starks. Lord Martyn had fought well beside him during the rebellion against the Targaryens and was the first to raise his army during the Greyjoy uprising. However, for all their strength, they seemed to be plagued by cursed times, and Ned feared this was only another.

Feeling four sets of eyes burning holes into his skin, he unrolled the paper.

"Gods help them," Ned found himself whispering. The boy had been his father's namesake, a strong lad who had nearly unseated Ser Jaime Lannister in a tournament he attended some time back. During the harvest feast, Robb would practice with him every chance he got while Sansa stared on with dreamy eyes. He had been a good friend to the family and Ned would have been proud to call him his bannerman.

"Ned?"

Looking up into the clear, blue eyes of his wife, he sighed. "Rickard Lanford is dead. They found his body the day before yesterday by Long Lake. It was a sight meant for no man's eyes."

There was a long spell of silence amongst the small group, only broken by the occasional yip of a direwolf pup below. Catelyn had covered her mouth and turned away shaking as if she had seen the body herself, while the three boys examined the wood beneath their feet, as respectable as could be. Even Theon knew not to push his luck with some quip.

Strangely, it was Jon who spoke first. "Does that mean…that Serra…"

"Is her father's heir," Ned finished, not blind to the look Catelyn sent the boy's way for being so familiar with the girl. "And future Lady of Lonely Keep." Jon nodded, looking sheepish as he departed from the group. "Robb, gather your brothers and sisters, bring them inside. Theon, send for Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. I will meet them in the godswood."

When they had gone, Ned returned to the railing, leaning hard against it. Now the courtyard was quiet and empty, save for the occasional passerby. Was nothing good meant to thrive in these dark days?

There was a light touch on his shoulder, the comfort of a wife who knew all too well her husband's gloom. "What else was there, Ned?"

He felt his hands grip the wood tighter, an anger possessing him, deep and old for the North never forgets. "The manner of the boy's death was unnatural."

"He was murdered?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"It was much worse than that, Cat." He handed his wife the small parchment and watched as she read over the words, the color draining from her skin. "He was flayed."

* * *

Thank you very much for reading. I hope it was not too confusing. I didn't want to just straightforward explain everyone in the family and their roles and their whole history because I find that a bit boring. I want to slowly incorporate everything. If you're confused about anything, feel free to put it in a review or to PM me. Don't be afraid to speak up, I want to get this right.


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